


Against the Window-Panes

by eurydice72



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Missing Scene, Season 2, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurydice72/pseuds/eurydice72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in Season 2, Episode 12, "The Black Widow." Dale agrees to a little detour on the way to see Dead Dog Farm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against the Window-Panes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dracothelizard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracothelizard/gifts).



> Happy holidays! Who knew finding free time for Dale to do something completely unrelated to what was going on with Laura and Windom Earle would be so hard? I wanted to keep this as ship-free as you requested, so I opted specifically for this window post-Audrey/pre-Annie, while still maintaining the spirit of the show. Thank you for letting me color inside Lynch's lines, even for a little while.
> 
> The title (and more) is from "Through the Looking Glass."

For all the shadows that dash around corners as soon as eyes turn to them (out of sight but never out of mind) Dale finds the wind that always skims through Twin Peaks soothing. It’s a constant in a world of caprice, inhalations to feed lives that often don’t realize they’re hungry. Even when he’s inside, simply standing at a window, the quiver of branches scratching against the glass is enough to reaffirm his choice to stay. 

Twin Peaks is the Gordian knot he didn’t realize he was looking for. Until now.

“Ready?”

He turns toward Irene’s voice with a smile. She waits for him in the doorway, her manila folders cradled against her chest like a shield, and though he wants to assure her he’s as trustworthy as his credit score, what comes out is, “Absolutely.”

She gives him the option of following her back to her office to pick up the keys for Dead Dog Farm, but Dale passes, sliding into the passenger seat of her tan Buick Century with a comfort that’s come from days of trusting Harry and the others to lead the way. He even gets to push the seat back to make room for his longer legs. 

“Comfy?” she asks.

“Very.” He wriggles against the seat. “You have great lumbar support.”

“I aim to please.”

He likes that Irene isn’t a talker. He can sit back and enjoy the ride, maybe forget for a few minutes about the shrouds threatening to crush everything he knows. The sun helps. It’s not the most brilliant he’s ever seen, but it doesn’t flinch away from the pervasive clouds. It guides them down streets that are no longer nameless and gets in his eyes every time she turns a corner. He never blinks.

When she makes a left at the intersection before her office, he twists to watch it disappear behind them. “Irene,” he says. “I believe you’ve taken a wrong turn.”

“Oh, no, this is the way.”

“Aren’t you next to the cleaning service?”

“Yes, but this part of town is a one-way system. To get to the office, you have to go around the block and approach from the other side.”

Though he could’ve sworn he’s traveled down that road with Harry, he doesn’t question her direction, sitting back until she makes three rights and pulls up in front of the low-slung building. Feathers flutter in the cleaners’ window next door, distracting him as Irene kills the engine. Not owl feathers, he deduces. A purple that bright doesn’t occur naturally.

Irene hesitates with her fingers on the handle. “Would you like to come in and meet everyone?”

“I’d love to. Thank you.”

But walking through the glass door places them in chaos.

“There you are!” A young woman with bright freckles and pale hair bounds around the front desk, a stack of pink slips flapping in her hand. “Mrs. Spurlock is at it again.”

Irene immediately scowls. “No.”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Randy called before he went to work, and then three different neighbors called after that.”

With a sigh, Irene takes the messages and flips through them. “Can you get me the keys to Dead Dog Farm, please?” she says without looking up.

“Why?”

“Because Mr. Cooper would like to see it.”

The young woman notices him for the first time, her eyes widening in surprise. He can tell she would love to say something, but perhaps she senses the sternness in Irene’s tone because she darts off like a startled bee, gone before she needs to be instructed a second time.

Others hover in the background, but Irene makes no attempt to introduce him like she promised. When the girl comes back with the keys, she exchanges the messages for them. 

“What should we do?” the girl asks.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

Irene leaves without further commentary, leaving Dale to nod awkwardly and follow her out. In the car, he holds his tongue to see if she will offer more information. She has the look of someone who cannot contain negative energy.

“Do you mind if I make a stop before we go out to Dead Dog Farm?” she says.

“Of course not,” he assures. “I hope everything’s all right.”

Her sigh reaches the silent corners of the car’s interior. “Just a problem we have with one of our rentals every once in a while. I thought we were past it all, but I guess not.”

“If we need to reschedule—”

“No, no need for that. Mrs. Spurlock is on the way, and it should only take a couple minutes.” As she reverses out of her parking spot, her knuckles crack from how tightly she holds the wheel. “She’s a lovely woman, but she gets an idea in her head and it’s impossible to get it out again.”

The more Irene says, the more curious Dale gets. “Some people are like that.”

They have to stop at the corner, the streetlight swaying slightly in the wind. “Hawk thinks I’m wasting my time whenever I go over there. He refused to accompany me after the first time I called the sheriff’s office.”

“You’ve had to involve the police?”

“Well, technically, it’s a crime.” When she glances at him, hope gleams in her dark eyes. “Maybe you could come in when I talk with her today. She might take me seriously then.”

“If Hawk can’t help, I’m not sure what good you think I can do.”

“You’re an authority figure.”

“I don’t have a badge anymore.”

“That doesn’t change what you are.”

Her pronouncement leaves him silent as the light turns green and she edges through the intersection. His mind is made up before she gets back to full speed.

“If you think it’ll help, I’m more than happy to accompany you,” he says. “But just so we’re clear, I can’t actually do or say anything.”

She smiles, and her shoulders drop as she eases her death grip on the wheel. “You won’t have to.”

He still has no idea what this Mrs. Spurlock could be doing that is so egregious, but he’s more than content to go along for the ride and discover the answer for himself. Irene meanders through residential streets he’s not witnessed yet in Twin Peaks, tidy neighborhoods where the currency of choice is dignity if not the American dollar. None of the houses have the character of those he’d opted to view. 

Until she pulls into the driveway of a blue bungalow.

Dale’s grin is instantaneous as he gets out of the car. The postcard lawn is speckled in windmills, some tall, some tiny, none facing the same direction and yet all spinning in lazy circles to join in the cool breeze. Wildflowers dance alongside the metal frames, whites and yellows and browns against the green grass. He would have thought it would be too early for blooms, but clearly, Mrs. Spurlock is here to prove him wrong.

A fresh gust sends chimes hanging along the porch into a frenzied song. Irene’s sigh is audible.

“How long has Mrs. Spurlock been a tenant?” Dale asks as they walk up the path. It’s made of stones that have been polished and set in concrete, but easily navigable with his rugged soles. He would’ve slipped in his official issue shoes.

“She’s not.” Irene nods toward the next house over. “That one is ours.”

He has time to examine it briefly while they wait under the porch eaves for someone to answer her knock. The neighboring structure matches most of the neighborhood with its tan clapboard siding and bare yard. The only incongruity is the tufts of broken grass scattered along the lawn’s otherwise smooth canvas.

The door squeaks as it’s pulled open, and Dale has to retreat a step to give Irene room to move back and make way for the screen door that gets pushed outward at nearly the same time.

An older woman stands between them, though like her home, she is not what Dale expects to find, either. She isn’t even as tall as Irene, but just as plump, with twinkling jet eyes and a Jean Seberg cut. Though her hair is pure white, her dark skin is devoid of wrinkles, only the faintest of lines crinkling the corners of her eyes. The hands that hold the doors wide tell a different story, riddled with blue veins and age spots.

“Guests!” She steps out of their way to enter, practically vibrating in her excitement. “I knew there was a reason I put the tea on.”

Irene doesn’t move. “I’m not here on a social call, Mrs. Spurlock.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I need to treat you any less.” Behind her, a kettle whistles. “And there’s the water, so really, you have to come in because I can’t be in two places at one time, now can I?”

When she disappears back inside, she leaves the inside door open, inviting them to follow. Irene sweeps her shrewd gaze over the lawn with a shake of her head.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “This might take a little longer than I anticipated.”

“No worries.” He holds the screen door for her. “After you.”

The living room is cozy, with two overstuffed chairs flanking what had once been a fireplace. Now, it is boarded over and on the screen that hides it is a windmill done in mosaic. Curled up on the unnecessary hearth are two cats, one white, one black, twisted around the other’s sinuous body so that the only way to determine which one is which is by the color of the fur. Even then, Dale isn’t sure he could pick out which tail belonged to which animal.

The black cat blinks sleepy eyes at them. As it starts to lift its head, Mrs. Spurlock enters from the kitchen, carrying an enamel tray laden with tea and cookies.

“Don’t even think it,” she scolds the cat.

As if it understands, the cat buries its nose in its partner’s fur and goes back to sleep.

“Mrs. Spurlock—”

“Milk for Irene, I know that.” She sets the tray down on the oak coffee table, pushing aside a thick, leather-bound book with pages rippled from water damage. “And how do you take your tea, Mr…?”

“Cooper,” he finishes for her. “No milk for me, please.”

Her attention is on him, however, not the tea in question. “You look familiar, Mr. Cooper. Why is that?”

“Mrs. Spurlock—”

“Oh, I know.” It’s the second time she’s ignored Irene’s attempts to discuss whatever it is they’re here to talk about. Dale would bet it’s not on purpose. “You’re that fella who helped solve that poor girl’s murder.”

Now that she’s recognized him, it's pointless to pretend. “Yes.”

“Sad business, that.”

“Did you know Laura Palmer?”

Sadness has filmed the eyes she lifts to his. “Don’t we all?”

“Mrs. Spurlock!” Even Irene seems startled at how sharp her tone is, but in spite of the frown swiveled her way, she barrels on. “I’m here about the windmills.”

Mrs. Spurlock relaxes and returns to pouring out the tea. “Grand day for them, isn’t it? I swear, the wind’s about to rattle the glass right out of my windows today.”

Dale wouldn’t have characterized it nearly as harshly, except it chooses that exact moment to set off the chimes on the porch. They echo through the walls, a fragile song that lingers long after it dies away.

“We’ve been over this, Mrs. Spurlock. They’re not yours to simply take whenever the mood strikes you. They belong to Mr. Hudson.”

“But the house is empty.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that they belong on his lawn, not yours.”

“Here you go, Mr. Cooper.” Her fingers graze his as she passes over the cup, her skin hot and papery in that scant moment. “Did you know that historically, windmills were mostly used for drawing water? Funny when you think of all those wind farms in the middle of the desert, now isn’t it?”

“Well, when you put it like that, I guess it is.” Since she isn’t responding to Irene’s prompting, he takes a chance with his own. “Why did you take the windmills, Mrs. Spurlock?”

“The way I see it, somebody should get some use out of them.” She drops into the other chair like she’s been on her feet all day. “Have you seen how happy they make my flowers? And look.” She points to something out of sight behind him. “They’ve even put Lewis to sleep, and he gets into absolutely everything these days.”

The target of her focus resides in the corner alongside the heavy blue drapes that have been opened to let in the day. Though the curtains don’t move, the white wooden windmill next to them does, the blades rolling around and around and around, caught in an invisible current. Damp soil still clings to the sharpened posts that would drive it into the earth, and though their stance is precarious, it doesn’t wobble or sway, stalwart as it redirects the moving air straight to the sleeping cats.

“They still have to be put back,” Irene says.

“Do _you_ think they need to go back, Mr. Cooper?”

Mrs. Spurlock regards him with such pleading in her eyes, he hates to say, “Unfortunately, Irene’s right. They’re not yours.” When she sags against the cushion, he hastens to add, “Why don’t I take care of it for you? You enjoy your tea.”

“Half of them weren’t even in the ground,” she mutters as he heads for the door. “Anything can slip on by then.”

Irene joins him, and together, they make short work of returning the windmills to their original home. The ground is sodden in places, water oozing up around the posts before vanishing back into the dirt, but at least it makes their task easy if not the cleanest chore.

“One more,” Irene announces.

She refers to the one Mrs. Spurlock has taken inside, but Dale finds the thought of taking it away from her distasteful. “Do these have sentimental value for Mr. Hudson?”

“Not that I know of. “

“Are they collectibles?”

“Oh, heavens no.”

“What happens if one breaks?”

Irene frowns. “Why?”

When he glances at the Spurlock house, Mrs. Spurlock stands at the front window, cradling her tea between her palms. “I believe I need to pay to replace one,” he says, reaching for his wallet. “Perhaps you won’t have to worry about coming to speak to Mrs. Spurlock again if I do.”

Irene waits for him in the car as he goes to the door to say goodbye. The black cat winds around Mrs. Spurlock’s ankles, so he blocks the way in case it tries to make a dash for it.

“Thank you,” she says at the news about the windmill she gets to keep. “But I fear it won’t be quite the same.”

Considering how melancholy her yard seems without the windmill exhibition, Dale fears it, too. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Wait.” The single word stops him in mid-turn. She scurries to the coffee table and brings back the book. “Here.”

The title is emblazoned in a blue that has faded over the years, the language not one he recognizes. “I can’t.”

“I insist.”

To be sure, he flips open to a random page. More indecipherable words. “But I can’t read this.”

“You don’t have to.”

She closes the door before he can give it back. He tucks it into his vest, turns on his heel, and joins Irene in the Buick.

Neither of them speak on the way out to Dead Dog Farm. He finds his thoughts drifting to Spaniards and toothbrushes, and unsheathes the book again to rifle through the puckered pages. Some stick together, clinging to each other with a tenacity he almost admires. Occasionally, he spots a word he thinks he ought to know, but the moment he tries to reach for its meaning, it flits off, defying him to chase after it.

Irene rounds a group of trees, and the house from her photograph looms ahead. Though a stone chimney shimmies up the front, Dale is somehow certain this fireplace won’t be boarded up. He sets aside the book to examine later. The puzzle of Mrs. Spurlock will have to wait. Irene has promised him a better one.

He’s actually excited about it, stomach fluttering in anticipation, all the way until he climbs out of the car. That’s when he notices how still the air is. Nothing moves. The wind that has been unflagging from his arrival has abandoned him in this desolate place.

At the nearest window, vague orange and yellow circles pattern the curtains that hang inside (out of sight but never out of mind). 

His skin crawls.

“Well, it’s still standing…”


End file.
